Dash Cam
by December Writing Dragon
Summary: Russia needs to clear out the footage from his car's dashboard camera and is treated to some exciting encounters between himself and America. RusAme / AmeRus oneshot.


Tick. Tick. Tick.

A handsome grandfather clock counted away the time with blind persistence, one of the few sounds drifting through the house, beyond the soft electric hum of appliances, and the muffled footsteps of the house's occupant. Russia's feet were nestled in soft sky blue slippers as he padded about, completing the latter half of his usual morning routine. There was an extra sense of haste to his movements; America was scheduled to stay over the weekend and while they usually scheduled for Russia to pick him up from the airport, lately there had been occasions where America would simply turn up to surprise him. This was all well and good, except Russia quite liked his house to be properly presentable for company; America insisted the place always looked fine (in his words, "damn awesome and super cozy"), but his spirit as a host and a competitor drove him to seek perfection.

With mostly everything cleaned up, Russia was left with a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, a knowledge that there was one more final task he needed to complete. He gave a hum only he and his cat Lev could hear in the otherwise empty abode. The worn soles of his slippers barely making any noise against the wood floor, he strolled around the upstairs, checking for the third time to make sure the sheets were changed, fluffing the pillows, heading back to the main floor to inspect his refrigerator, and eventually changing into a worn pair of outside shoes to make the short trip to his banya to make sure everything was in order within the bathhouse. Indeed, all the necessities were present there as well; Egyptian cotton towels were stacked neatly on the bench beside thin leafy birch branches.

Strolling back towards his house, Russia made a short detour at his garage, and it was there that he remembered his final task. With a sigh, he stepped into the darkened space and over to his car. Right. If indeed he was picking America up at the airport, Russia wanted his dashboard camera to be in working order. This required him to empty it of any unnecessary footage.

Inside, he sat himself down with some tea, a thick layer of undissolved sugar settled at the bottom, and some pickles, settling himself down for what was usually a monotonous task.

The screen before him showed the shaky videos captured by his dash cam. Along he drove down a Moscow highway; outside the camera's range, Russia knew he was casting an envious look at the road dedicated solely to public transportation such as buses, not cursed quite so badly as the other lanes with traffic congestion. Delete.

The footage changed to show himself completely parked on the road, all other vehicles around him just as stationary. The driver in the car ahead of him was poking his head out the window, chatting with Ivan while they waited. As time passed, the man even stepped out from his car as Ivan did the same, so they could continue their conversation more comfortable. When the line began to move, they hastily returned to their cars and moved three feet forward before repeating the process. Delete.

Now the video showed him driving through Nevsky Prospect, only to be cut off by someone from the adjacent lane. The driver made a wide turn, spinning completely around to come to a stop perfectly between two other parked cars. It was a fast, dangerous version of typical parallel parking. Delete.

Apparently the camera had been on when Russia was unaware of it, for the next video feed showed him cleaning the window before clambering down to wipe at the hood with a cleaning cloth. Delete.

Russia saw himself and America; his car was parked outside, and Russia had been trying to hose it down when America came up behind him and threw his arms around him. Russia made to delete this footage too, but paused. Both were laughing as America continued to cling to Russia, using his unnatural strength as Russia tried to shoulder him off. When he did step away, Russia retaliated by spraying him with the nose. America's laugh was silenced by the camera's lack of audio, but Russia could hear it well enough as he watched America raise his arms defensively over his face, glasses looking less like glass and more like glistening crystals as the water droplets clung to them. A chase soon commenced, the two nations gaining and losing ground as America grabbed a water bucket and tried dumping it on Russia, who persisted with the hose. Back outside of the screen, Russia smiled and moved on to the next bit of footage without deleting the previous segment.

The lighting was darker now; in the video, it was early evening. Russia had been carrying groceries from the trunk over to the door leading into his house when America rushed up behind him and grabbed onto his scarf. Russia turned in protest, but this only allowed America to reel him in by the pink fabric like some large fish. The large paper back Russia was still carrying was the only thing between them, until America reached over that and planted his lips on Russia's; then, the goods fell to the floor as Russia returned the embrace. He pressed forward until America's back was pressed against the hood of his car, and soon his entire torso was laid out on the sleek metal. Russia was quick to clamber up as America backed up to allow for more room. They were on their sides now, facing one another with a hunger whose intensity could be felt even through a screen. Suddenly, back in his office, Russia felt very warm around the collar, and soon found himself loosening his scarf. On the screen, America was doing the same, unwinding the long fabric with a deliberate and tantalizing slowness, eyes never looking away from Russia as the latter licked his lips in anticipation. When the scarf was out of the way, America placed it reverently aside, further up on the hood of the car.

And the two launched themselves at each other. America's mouth latched itself along the scarred and ruined column of Russia's pale throat while one of Russia's hands dug almost hungrily through America's hair and the other flew up America's shirt to grope at his chest. Although there was no audio, Russia felt certain he could hear the thumping of their limbs against the car as they made out with complete abandon. Soon, having his scarf removed was not enough to cool Russia's nerves, and the buttons of his shirt were hastily undone as his eyes continued to be glued to the sight before him. Both he and America were now completely laying down on his car, curled and folded together as they continued kissing and pawing at one another. As if the America in the video knew what his observer was doing, he began unbuttoning Russia's shirt, Russia having already removed America's. It was right when America went to yank the fabric off, that someone said, "What're you watching?"

Russia nearly flew ten feet from his seat as he whirled around, seeing a very real very present America standing in the doorway, grinning triumphantly at him. Meanwhile, the video continued to play for a few seconds more, before cutting to footage of he and America, standing on opposite sides of the front of the car, hands locked in an arm wrestle. Except when neither of them emerged as champion, Russia had decided to finesse his way to victory by tugging America forward onto the hood, the better to kiss him breathless.

The America in Russia's office let his eyes drift to the screen, cheeks warming yet a mischievous sparkle lighting his features. "Just couldn't wait to see me, huh?"

"I, uh, that is, ah…" Russia waved his hand almost pleadingly at the video, now showing him kissing a trail up and down America's exposed torso. "I…I was supposed to pick you up."

"Yes, I know." America's grin was insufferable. "And?"

"I needed to empty my dashboard camera's memory."

"Seemed like a pretty good memory to me."

Russia could only nod, the tips of his ears feeling rather warm. He did not fail to notice the way America's gaze was flick between himself and the screen, as if unable to keep from looking away, but ashamed to be doing so. Ah, his Puritan roots never fully left him. "So, uh," America began, smiling sheepishly as a hand rubbed at the back of his neck. "If you wanna make out on your car again, I'm not complaining."

Russia's eyes were amethyst flames as he stepped over to America and drew him close. His breath was as warm as his flesh, flushed from what he had seen. It ghosted over America's skin as he spoke. "I would not mind either."


End file.
